


first love, late spring

by lehtonen



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8277667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lehtonen/pseuds/lehtonen
Summary: “Right.” Ransom still looks serious, but there’s a sinister glint in his eye that Holster gloomily recognises as contemplation. “What’s in it for us?”Holster whips his head round to stare at him so fast his neck twinges in three different places. “Nothing is in it for us,” he hisses sotto voce, “or did you not hear the part where we’d be dating?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I started this probably over a year ago and only recently rediscovered it, which is why it's so behind in relation to the actual comic; feel free to consider it an au if that makes you feel better about how hideously it clashes with 2016!canon!
> 
> Titled after first love/late spring by Mitski.

Unsurprisingly, it’s all Shitty’s fault. 

He’s slumped face-down on the kitchen table wearing nothing but a worn flannel bathrobe when Holster comes downstairs one bright Friday morning in mid-April, which is a worrying sign in itself; unless Bitty’s just swept through with a scourer and industrial strength cleaner, touching any surface in the Haus kitchen with your unprotected face is a risky move, bordering on outright dangerous. Figuring Shitty must truly be in the depths of existential despair - the _who cares if there’s week-old jam on my forehead when we’re all hurtling towards death and nothing matters anyway_ kind of crisis - Holster pats Shitty’s shoulder reassuringly and puts effort into making his “Yo dude, ‘sup?” sound especially soothing. Shitty jerks upright, eyes manic and hair even worse, moustache quivering like a small woodland animal somehow marooned on the questionable territory between his nose and upper lip. 

“Birkholtz, my man.” 

“S’me,” Holster nods in agreement, dropping two sliced of bread into the toaster and lazily leaning back against the kitchen counter. It always takes him a while to start functioning in the mornings; he’s firmly of the opinion that 10am is just _too_ early to be awake, classes and hockey practice be damned. Shitty, comparatively, visibly wired and surrounded by no less than four empty coffee mugs, looks like the poster child for the dangers of high blood pressure and a predominantly caffeine-based diet.

“So okay, you know what the fucking, the fucking problem with this whole concept, the fucking,” Shitty breaks off to flail meaningfully at his laptop, patiently displaying Microsoft Word from its semi-buried position beneath a precarious pile of Foucault and Derrida, “ _fucking_ end-of-term paper _bullshit_ is?”

Holster shrugs, one eye still on the toaster, idly musing if the numbers on the dial are supposed to represent minutes or just, like, the particular degree of bread toastiness? He never thinks to time it to check until his bread is already halfway toasted, and by then it’s really too late to know for sure. He should ask Rans, maybe; toaster science sounds like the kind of nerdy shit he’d be into.

“It’s like, I’m supposed to talk about homoeroticism in a hypermasculine environment, right? And what I really need for this to make _any fucking sense whatsoever_ is, like, an actual full-on relationship between teammates, to compare attitudes and whatever, only the accuracy of third-hand information is questionable, honestly, and I was totally counting on Jack and Bittle to sort their shit out before I had to hand this in but, Holster, they _hate_ me and they _won’t_ -” Shitty shoots a baleful glance at the ceiling, as though he can somehow will Jack and Bitty into realising their latent love from one floor down with the power of his sexuality-affirming laser-beam stare, then fixes his despairing gaze on Holster instead, hands clasped together imploringly. “Bro. I’m dying here. You know you wanna help me out.”

Holster straightens up warily. If nothing else, 10am is definitely, definitely too early for homoeroticism at the kitchen table. “Depends, man. What kind of help are you after?”

“Well, you know, you and Rans are close.” Shitty performs a mildly deranged gesture with his hands that makes absolutely no sense to Holster but is probably gleefully screaming ‘gay sex!’ in the horrifying depths of Shitty’s bizarre, sleep-deprived mind. “Close. I mean. You know.”

Holster feels a roiling sensation in the pit of his stomach, an instinctive reaction to the way Shitty’s looking at him; almost, he thinks ghoulishly, like Holster is a butterfly in a display case, staring down the business end of a particularly large pin. He has a horrible feeling he knows what’s coming. Every cell in his body starts trying to fling themselves towards the nearest exit; his feet have just caught on and begun inching closer to the door when his toast cheerfully springs out of the toaster with a loud pop. Trapped, he stops in place, feeling rather like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck. A great big rainbow truck. With great big rainbow headlights and a giant banner proclaiming “this is a terrible fucking idea” strung up in between them. 

“Uh, well, yeah. We’re close. Platonically.” He can actually feel the tips of his ears reddening; it’s a tingly, not especially pleasant sensation. “As friends, who are close. Close friends.” 

“I hear you.” Shitty is still staring at him expectantly, eyes wide and unblinking in a way that somehow manages to look beseeching and slightly threatening at the same time. Holster swallows nervously.

“Um. Okay, I’m not sure if this is - I mean, uh, it’s not that I don’t want to help, I just-”

“Morning, boys.” Ransom’s amiable voice precedes his entry into the kitchen, predictably shirtless and with his worn grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Holster squeezes his eyes shut and resists the suddenly incredibly strong urge to slam his head backwards into the cabinets. 

“Ransom!” Shitty’s face lights up with ominous delight. “Hypothetically, what are your thoughts on dating Holster to help me get into law school?”

Ransom’s eyebrows quirk upwards but he barely pauses in his movements as he reaches over and unapologetically snags half of Holster’s neglected breakfast out of the toaster. He looks completely - and unsurprisingly, fuck _everything_ \- unfazed. “Shits, you know I love you like my very own weird uncle, right? But sometimes when you say things I gotta wonder if you were actually socialised as a human being and not just, like, raised by chipmunks.” He takes a bite out of Holster’s purloined toast and nods gravely as though to emphasise his point.

“No, c’mon, it makes sense - I just need you to date. For a while. So I can take notes on the _homosocial_ versus the _homosexual_ ,” he makes the terrifying, inexplicable hand gesture again, and Holster wonders if he can crawl right into the kitchen cupboard and live there for a while instead of this horrible kitchen filled with horrible people, “in a sporting environment, you know?”

“Right.” Ransom still looks serious, but there’s a sinister glint in his eye that Holster gloomily recognises as contemplation. “What’s in it for us?”

Holster whips his head round to stare at him so fast his neck twinges in three different places. “Nothing is in it for us,” he hisses _sotto voce_ , “or did you not hear the part where we’d be _dating_?”

Ransom shrugs philosophically as Shitty gleefully interjects, “It wouldn’t have to be for real. I just need the rest of the team to think it is. And I’ll do your laundry until I graduate, I swear.”

Holster snorts. “You graduate in, like, five minutes, and what makes you so sure the team will even go for it in the first place?”

“Well, uh.” Shitty pauses with the air of someone very much trying to be diplomatic but not quite caring enough to make it sound genuine. “The thing is, I don’t think it would be much of a leap for them? You guys are. Um. Touchy-feely?”

“What the fuck, no we’re not.”

“You fell asleep spooning on the couch last week.” Shitty’s tone is uncharacteristically delicate, like he’s gentling a wild animal that’s seconds away from savaging his hand, and fuck, Holster can’t actually deny that one; Bitty had taken pictures, developed on glossy 10” by 8” film and now affixed quite smugly - and firmly, Holster recalls testily - to the Haus noticeboard. Deciding that silence is probably the best defence, he chooses not to comment.

Shitty, who’s never met an idea he hasn’t doggedly pursued to its inevitable death, at least has the decency to imbue his tone with a modicum of sincerity when he speaks again. “Look, guys, you seriously don’t have to if you don’t want to, but this would really help me out. I’d owe you a big one.”

Holster sighs, heart sinking with all the dread of a foregone conclusion. He wants to fake-date Ransom about as much as he wants to invite the entire Samwell roster to shoot pucks at his naked junk, but a bro’s a bro, and turning Shitty down after he’d pulled out the serious voice wouldn’t be a buddy move. He chances a glance to his left only to find that Ransom is already looking at him assessingly, mouth curved into a question that Holster answers aloud. “Okay. Fine. I’m in. What do we have to do?”

***

“This is so stupid. This is so unbelievably stupid.” 

“It is not stupid, and this is _so_ not the sporting attitude I expect from a member of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team.”

“Fuck you, douchebrain, this isn’t a hockey play.”

“C’mon, I’m just saying, don’t you think it’ll be fun?”

“I cannot believe I agreed to this.” Holster scowls determinedly at the wall of their shared bedroom instead of looking at Ransom’s terrible, traitorous face. “And no, I don’t think it’ll be fun, I think it’ll be stupid. We’re gonna get busted in, what, six minutes? Tops.”

“Always such a pessimist.” Ransom grins cheerfully at him, then ruffles his hair. Holster hates him. Viciously. “Just go along with it, bro, I swear it’ll be fine.”

“Uh, yeah, dude, I don’t think I’m really into your definition of ‘fine.’” Holster turns to face him, narrowing his eyes and pushing his glasses up his nose to magnify his glare. “‘Fine’ to most people just means, you know, unremarkable. Mundane. Bland. The weather is _fine_. The paper I handed in last week was _fine_. Pretend gay dating your best friend for the sake of someone else’s GPA is not _fine_ , it’s stupid and awful and I hate you.”

“Damn, you gonna kiss your fake boyfriend with that mouth?” Ransom smirks, obnoxious, already halfway out of the door as Holster’s eyebrows shoot disbelievingly up towards his hairline. Not for the first time - not even for the first time _that day_ \- he considers dropping out of Samwell and moving to New Mexico.

***

The thing is, Holster isn’t homophobic. He knows how it looks, okay - he’s been hanging around Shitty and Lardo and, god, _Bitty_ , for long enough to know that unpleasant sentiments with regards to someone’s sexual orientation don’t always need to be expressed overtly in order to be harmful, that sometimes, an athlete’s caginess or casual _hey, no homo, dude_ , can be just as much of a slap in the face. And he isn’t uncomfortable around gay people; his big sister’s girlfriend has been one of his best friends since he was old enough for her to kick his ass at Halo.

It’s just. Maybe he’s a little uncomfortable around Ransom, sometimes. 

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face, rubbing at the tension point between his eyebrows. Ransom is his best friend, bar none; they’d clicked at their first practice together and that had been it for them. And it sucks being on edge around your platonic soulmate, seriously, but somewhere along the line Holster had maybe stopped seeing Ransom as his friend, his _bro_ , and started noticing things like the broad flex of his shoulders during a game, the clever twist of his wrists around a hockey stick, the perfect arch of his eyebrows where they sweep down towards the upper curve of his cheekbones. His fat fucking lips when he smiles. Inconvenient things that slithered out of the day-to-day and started popping up in Holster’s dreams, or - yet more unsettling - his fantasies of his life-post-college, of a cosy house in the suburbs with a rink in the yard every winter, with kids, and a dog, and the same deep brown eyes through it all, looking right back at him. So when Ransom claps him on the shoulder, grinning wide and open as ever, like there’s nothing _he_ could possibly be hiding beneath a carefully constructed facade, and calls him his _boyfriend_ , it jibes, just a tiny bit. 

Holster slumps down until he’s lying flat on his mattress, staring moodily up at the underside of the top bunk. He knows this is going to turn out to be a bad fucking idea, and just because he only really has himself to blame for agreeing to it in the first place doesn’t mean he’s going to stop feeling sorry for himself anytime soon.

Somewhere at his side, his phone goes off, buzzing loudly against the wooden surface of the nightstand he shares with Ransom, and he groans under his breath, incipient headache still brewing at the base of his skull. He shuts his eyes briefly and then rolls half-off his bunk, blindly reaching for the phone with a clumsy hand, almost knocking his lamp and a half-empty glass of water off the side in the process.

Ransom: _hey lover boy. so you coming out tonite???_

Holster drags his pillow over his face and presses down until he starts seeing bright flashes of colour behind his eyelids, viciously smothering the butterflies in his stomach and bitterly willing away the sudden surge of adrenaline in his chest. Fuck his life. _Seriously._

***

He goes out anyway, in the end, and determinedly doesn’t think about how little effort Ransom had needed to put in before he caved. 

There’s a bar just off campus that’s notorious among Samwell students for its lax approach to carding, and it’s there that Holster arrives just before dark, the last rays of sun casting long purplish shadows along the winding street. Exchanging a familiar nod with the bartender, he heads for the booth furthest from the door, shrugging off his coat and sliding in next to Lardo. Ransom isn’t there yet, and Holster lets himself relax a little, settling in as Lardo amiably punches his shoulder and passes him a beer. “Hey man, how’s it going?”

“Yeah, fine.” He takes a swig of his beer, catching Shitty’s eye across the table and furrowing his brow disapprovingly at the smug expression on Shitty’s face. Holster doesn’t think anyone with a moustache like that has the right to look quite so self-satisfied, a fact he tries his best to communicate with a flat, unimpressed stare. 

“Good, ‘cos we’re going all-out tonight.” Lardo grins at him, showing her small, pointed teeth, as she knocks her beer against his own. “You up for it?”

The answer is a fervent, definitive yes, earning him a chorus of whoops from the rest of the table - Bitty, Jack, Nursey, even Chowder, who’s looking positively thrilled to be included - and another approving shoulder-punch from Lardo, hard enough to make Holster wince a bit and press the knuckles of his opposite hand against his tricep.

“Aw, look who’s here!” Shitty sounds positively gleeful, practically on the edge of his seat, and Holster looks around sharply just as Ransom reaches their table, grinning broadly down at everyone. “Hey, guys, how’s it hanging? Alright, don’t get _too_ excited, Chowder - move up, Holster, a man’s gotta sit.”

There’s clearly more room on the other side of the table, next to Shitty, but Ransom drops down beside Holster anyway, shoving him further up the bench with a decent hip check and settling his thigh firmly against Holster’s own. He’s warm and comfortingly solid everywhere they touch, their bodies pressed together from knee to shoulder, and Holster’s heart thumps despairingly in his chest at the sensation. He downs the rest of his beer in one long swallow, then abruptly stands up, squeezing past Ransom and waving the empty bottle at the rest of the table as a curt excuse. 

At the bar, he orders another beer, and then, on a whim, a shot of vodka. He downs the shot as soon as it’s placed in front of him, sliding the empty glass back across the counter, then picks up his beer and carries it back to the table, savouring the welcome burn of the vodka in the pit of his stomach. 

Ransom visibly lights up as he draws nearer, hamming it up for all he’s worth. Opposite him, Shitty looks as though he’s about to keel over from happiness.

Holster wonders, grimly, if maybe he should have bypassed the shot and gone straight for the bottle

Still, he lets himself be pulled in, when Ransom reaches out and curls a proprietary arm around his waist. He sits back down, perched precariously on the edge of the bench, only for Ransom to haul him in closer as though Holster’s not inconsiderable weight is of no consequence to him at all, leaving his arm settled comfortably across Holster’s shoulders. It isn’t, really, any more or less ostensible a display than would normally be expected from them, a fact reflected in the total non-reaction of every single one of their friends present to witness it, but there’s still a _newness_ to it somehow, a strange burgeoning intimacy between them borne of the unique situation they’ve managed to manoeuvre themselves into, and Holster can tell from the particular way Ransom’s fingertips are resting against his upper arm, pressing in slightly as though seeking reassurance, that he isn’t alone in feeling it. 

Or maybe he’s just projecting. 

He stares despondently into the depths of the bottle in his hand until Jack kicks him sharply underneath the table with a discreet yet concerned nod at Bitty, who’s looking quietly worried enough that Holster’s stomach growls in preemptive anticipation of the therapy pies that’ll no doubt be making their way to his bedroom in the coming days. He forces a smile, one that’s probably unsuccessful judging by the way Bitty’s frown deepens even further, and makes an effort to tune into the argument currently raging on either side of him.

“No, fuck the Hawks, they’re _done_ , I swear-”

“C’mon, you’re only saying that because you hate them.”

“Yeah, and? Positive thinking never killed anyone!”

Holster catches Ransom’s eye out of the corner of his own and grins. _This_ he can do without breaking a sweat, and he launches into an impassioned diatribe against the Chicago Blackhawks and their Stanley Cup chances for the foreseeable future, his elbow knocking against Ransom’s as he leans across the table and loses himself in the debate.

He gets so into it that he doesn’t really register Ransom’s arm drifting casually down the expanse of his back until Ransom’s thumb is brushing softly back and forth over his hip, mapping the exposed stretch of skin where Holster’s shirt has ridden up a couple of centimetres. Instantly, he loses track of his sentence, trailing off into nothing as all of his attention hones in on the heat pooling in his gut, the trail of goosebumps pimpling his flesh in the wake of Ransom’s mindless touch. Helpless, he lets it continue for an interminable minute, then regains his senses in a sudden embarrassing rush of self-awareness, elbowing Ransom sharply in the side and tugging his shirt down over the waistband of his jeans. He can’t bring himself to look at Ransom while he does it; regardless, he doesn’t miss Ransom’s smirk, at once victorious and sheepish, or the way his eyes are lidded, heavy and mysterious like they’re keeping a secret, just the two of them - even though the entire _point_ of this ridiculous venture was for it to play out in front of their teammates from beginning to end, which means that Ransom’s little secretive touches under the table can really only be intended to rile him up.

It’s a long, long evening after that. 

***

It’s very late when they get back, well past 3am, and it’s taking all of Holster’s effort just to remain upright, only succeeding in climbing the stairs to the attic room without incident through a combination of sheer luck and Ransom’s steadying bulk at his side. 

Sluggish from the alcohol, he starts shedding clothes at the door, leaving a trail of discarded garments behind him as he collapses into bed. He forgets that Ransom’s arm is still linked with his until he manages to drag Ransom halfway down with him, setting them both off-balance. Just in time, Ransom catches himself with a hand braced against the upper bunk, letting Holster flop uselessly down onto the mattress and laughing at his drunkenly misplaced reflexes. It’s dark in the room, neither one of them having bothered to hit the light switch on the way in, but Holster can still make out the gleam of Ransom’s dark eyes in the moonlight streaming through the window. Ransom’s smirking down at him, not unkindly, his gaze fond and contemplative. 

“What?” Holster tries his best to sound moody, but his brain is fuzzy and he can’t quite shake the swooping feeling in his stomach like he just missed a step going up the stairs. 

Ransom huffs out a small, amused breath. “Nothing.” He reaches out, lightly tugging Holster’s glasses off of his face, folding the arms back and setting them down gently on the nightstand. “You probably shouldn’t sleep in these.”

“Whatever. You can’t tell me what to do.” Holster mumbles the words around a yawn, his eyes, involuntarily, beginning to slide shut.

“Yeah, okay, you’re independent and you don’t need no man,” Ransom snorts, tugging his shirt over his head before adding it carelessly to the ever-growing pile on the floor. Holster considers flipping him off, but he can’t quite muster the energy to move; and besides, he can hear Ransom already climbing the ladder to the top bunk, the bedframe creaking ominously as Ransom shifts around, getting comfortable above him.

Another thirty seconds and he’s drifting off, half-delirious with tiredness and inebriation, but he doesn’t think he imagines Ransom’s murmured “Goodnight, bro,” so quiet it’s nearly lost in the darkness. 

***

When Holster wakes again, it’s early in the morning, and it feels like the Yellowstone volcano is in the process of erupting behind his eyelids. Discontent, he grumbles incoherently, pulling the blanket up over his head and burrowing into his pillow. It’s another minute before he fully registers the heavy weight on his legs and squints one eye open, with considerable effort, only to regret it instantaneously. “ _What_ are you doing.”

“Hm? Oh, just waiting for you to wake up,” says Ransom, innocently, from his position sprawled across Holster’s knees, leafing through a biology textbook. 

Holster rubs tiredly at his eyes, sighing heavily. “Yes, but why?” It comes out a good deal more plaintive than he’d intended. “And what time is it anyway?”

“Never mind that.” Ransom sounds far too cheerful for whatever hideous time in the morning it is. “I was thinking about last night, actually. I think we need to rethink our approach.”

Holster starts to regret not having died peacefully in his sleep. “I don’t even _have_ an approach.”

“Well, we need one.” Ransom discards his textbook, propping his chin up on the palm of his hand and looking balefully up at Holster. “I was _all over you_ all night and I don’t think anyone even noticed.”

Of that, Holster is horribly aware. The culmination of a long evening of increased touching and almost unendurable torment had come when Ransom - undoubtedly at least one or two horribly mixed cocktails past too many - had wrapped his arms tightly around Holster’s shoulders, drawing him in close and planting a messy kiss on his cheek, just _slightly_ too close to his mouth, which had elicited nothing other than a drunken catcall from Lardo and an impassive eyebrow raise from Jack. And if _that_ wasn’t enough, Holster doesn’t even want to imagine what the next logical step would be. He remains silent. 

Ransom, unfortunately, isn’t fazed. “Anyways, what I’m saying is I think we need to kick it up a notch.”

Holster sighs loudly, exasperated and hungover and suddenly just so _tired_. “Bro, you know you’re, like, weirdly invested in this, right? Like, it’s not even your grade.”

Ransom pokes him in the thigh, resolutely unoffended. “I’m a good friend.” His tone is light, almost suspiciously airy, but he’s pushing himself up and away from the bed before Holster can call him on it.

“Yeah, whatever, man.” Holster rolls until he’s lying flat on his back, eyes shut tight against the aggressive glare of the morning light. He senses but doesn’t see Ransom pause in the doorway, hears his soft exhalation breach the silence that’s fallen between them.

“Okay, Shitty’s graduating soon, I just think it’d be cool to do a nice thing for him, you know? But if you’re actually uncomfortable, we don’t have to do it.” Ransom, pensive, raps his knuckles rhythmically against the doorframe, then grins sharply. “I can go romance Dex instead.”

Involuntarily, Holster laughs, opening his eyes and turning his head to gauge Ransom’s seriousness. “Fuck, don’t do that. Jesus.”

“I mean, shit, can you imagine?” Ransom’s laughing too, shaking his head, but the sound fades into the still air as he looks back at Holster. “I meant the rest though, just say the word if you want me to stop.”

Holster stares up at the motes of dust floating in midair, caught in the sunlight, and thinks. 

It really does verge on unbearable, faking something he’s only just beginning to realise he truly, genuinely desires, but what if this is the only way he can _have_ it? He wants to put an end to it, knows that he should for his own self-preservation in the long-term, but he just - he _can’t,_ when it comes down to it, when it’s surely only a matter of time before Ransom ends up actually dating any one of the pretty girls he brings back after parties; selfishly, he knows he’ll do anything to push back the inevitability of that day. 

He swallows, almost nervous at what he’s about to say, then lifts his eyes to meet Ransom’s gaze. “Nah, it’s okay. You’re good.”

Ransom’s grin is blinding. Holster’s chest hurts.

*** 

It isn’t long at all before Holster finds out exactly what Ransom meant by “kick it up a notch.” 

In fact, it’s technically still morning. Holster gives up on going back to sleep and drags himself out of bed just before noon, pausing only to pull on a pair of sweatpants that might not even be his from the floor pile, then heads downstairs, following the distant sound of voices.

Lardo pokes her head out of the living room door as he reaches the base of the stairs, her hair sticking up all around her head in a wild, tangled halo. “Oh cool, you can be the tie-breaker.”

Holster raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “For what?”

“What franchise we’re gonna marathon this afternoon.” She pulls a face at him. “So which is better for hangovers, Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings?”

“Lord of the Rings, obviously.”

“Okay, _thank_ you,” Ransom yells from inside the living room. “That’s what I was _saying_.”

“Fine, whatever.” Lardo rolls her eyes at Holster, then adds under her breath, “Anything’s fine just as long as they all _shut up_ for five minutes.” 

Holster grins at her, patting her shoulder amiably as he squeezes past her through the doorway.

Jack and Bitty are sprawled out over the floor, leaning against the sofa beneath a mountainous heap of blankets and sitting about as far away from each other as the limited space will allow, and there’s a visible dent on one of the armchairs where Lardo’s clearly made herself a nest among the cushions. All three of them are surrounded by piles of junk food, although Jack’s looks completely untouched. Ransom, somehow, has managed to snag the entire sofa to himself, long limbs spread out lazily across it.

He looks up as Holster enters, tilting his head back on the arm of the sofa to look at him upside-down, and Holster can immediately tell from the pleasure in his eyes, soft and encompassing, that this isn’t _friend_ Ransom, it’s _pretending-to-the-whole-world-that-we’re-dating_ Ransom. Holster forces himself to breathe calmly, sternly reminding himself that he did, in fact, sign up for this. Twice, even.

“Hey, babe.” Ransom’s voice is warm, content, and Holster hates the way his heart _actually_ skips a beat to hear it. He’s dimly aware that Lardo’s paused in the middle of a sentence and is staring at them curiously, assessingly, but most of his attention is focused on Ransom, whose normally effervescent, dynamic manner seems muted somehow, restrained in favour of radiating calm affection from every pore. His eyes haven’t moved from Holster at all, his gaze remaining perfectly steady despite the heavy, fascinated silence emanating somehow _loudly_ from everyone else in the room.

“Hey.” Holster sounds hoarse, wrecked, and he flushes, sincerely hoping he just sounds hungover and not desperately in love or anything pathetic like that.

Ransom smiles at him, slow and appreciative, sitting up a bit and shifting backwards on the sofa. _Making room_ , Holster realises with a mounting combination of horror and yearning. 

There’s nothing he can do to get out of this situation, though, so he gingerly steps up to the sofa and sits down in the too-small space Ransom’s allotted for him, the flat planes of Ransom’s stomach an inviting furnace only millimetres away from Holster’s back. Ransom makes a low, rumbling noise of approval in his throat, pushing himself up on an elbow and sliding his other arm around Holster’s waist, pulling him back against his chest.

This, finally, is too much for Lardo to let slide. “Um. Guys?”

Holster hopes against hope that his face is not as red as it feels. “What?”

Lardo’s eyebrows climb even further up her forehead as she gestures at them wordlessly. 

“I think what Lardo means to say is, um…” Bitty, similarly, trails off, lost. “Jack?”

Jack rolls his eyes, looking like he’d happily abdicate his captainly responsibilities in order to be literally anywhere else on campus right now. Holster really, _really_ relates. “You’re a thing now? Sweet.” 

There’s a short pause while everyone processes Jack’s blunt question, eventually broken by Ransom huffing a short, amused breath that raises the hair on the nape of Holster’s neck. “Yeah, we didn’t really know how to break it to you guys, so…”

“…You decided to PDA everywhere and give us all heart attacks instead?” Lardo’s eyebrows show no sign of descending any time soon. “Okay! Um, that’s cool.” 

“Of course we all support you,” Bitty rushes to add, still shell-shocked. “It’s just - _wow_ , how long has it been? I never would have guessed…”

“Well, you know, it’s still pretty new.” Ransom squeezes Holster even tighter and nuzzles - _nuzzles!_ \- against his shoulder. He hasn’t shaved yet this morning, and Holster can feel the rasp of his stubble where it brushes against the base of his neck. Idly, he wonders what the doctors will put down as his cause of death. “We’re still kind of getting used to it ourselves.”

“Ohh…kay. Well, that’s amazing, guys, thanks for telling us.” Bitty, absurdly, looks touched; Holster, frozen in place like the world’s most awkward ice statue, feels a conflicting surge of guilt and gratefulness. 

“Yeah, congratulations, we’re all very proud you two kids finally got it together.” Jack’s lips quirk up in a tiny, genuine smile to offset his sarcasm, as he fiddles uncomfortably with a loose thread on one of the blankets piled over his knees. “‘Swawesome. _Anyway_ , can we watch the film now, or…?” 

“Please.” Holster clings desperately to the chance to escape this conversation, nearly overbalancing as he lunges for the remote control. Ransom’s arm tightens around his waist, keeping him on the sofa; Holster feels Ransom’s muscles flex against his abdomen, separated from his bare skin only by the worn cotton of Holster’s tank top, and feels for a worrying second like he might actually faint. 

Holster realises, somewhere between Bilbo leaving the Shire and Boromir getting shot by Orcs, that he had been wrong. Everything that happened before this was nothing. This, however - the heat of Ransom’s body where it’s pressed firmly against his own, Ransom’s arm slung casually over his side, palm splayed across Holster’s stomach, the steady in-and-out of Ransom’s breathing when he falls asleep halfway through - _this_ is torment of the most agonising, unendurable kind, and Holster feels like he might vibrate out of his own skin, everything in him thrumming with a repressed, nervous energy, crackling like electricity in his veins. 

Ransom begins to stir towards the end of the second film, just as the sky outside is beginning to dim from afternoon to evening. He murmurs something unintelligible against Holster’s upper back, his fingers tightening in Holster’s shirt and then unclenching again as he stretches and yawns. Holster holds on until the credits are rolling, a frankly _herculean_ effort that he’d pat himself on the back for if his brain wasn’t so busy shortcircuiting, then extricates himself from Ransom’s grasp, claiming joint stiffness as he bolts from the room. 

He shuts himself in the bathroom, locking the door and immediately pressing his forehead against it, letting the coolness of the wood stabilise him. He’s been half-hard for what seems like hours; he can still feel the solid line of Ransom’s broad thigh where it had been pushing insistently against the back of his own, a phantom imprint that’s burning rapidly through his self-control. He breathes in deeply, once, twice, and then again, the tension gradually leeching out of his muscles.

After a long minute, he feels calmer, and straightens up, turning to face himself in the mirror. He suppresses a wince at the sight of his own face; he looks drawn, tiredness and stress gouging out deep purple circles underneath his eyes. Still, he knows his absence will be noted if he drags his heels for much longer, so he splashes cold water on his face and heads back out to the living room.

Ransom’s sitting up properly when he walks in, much to Holster’s relief. Back on firmer ground, he finds it easier to smile, jostling against Ransom’s side when he drops down on the couch and letting their knees knock together companionably. This is fine, this is no different to how they normally act around each other, and even better, it’s on his terms.

Which goes a long way towards explaining why, after a comfortable interlude, he feels relaxed enough to slide his hand across the tiny gap that separates them, resting it casually, palm-down, on Ransom’s lower thigh. It’s only a small gesture, albeit one he had to spend twenty minutes steeling himself up to do, but he was pretty sure Ransom wasn’t expecting him to take the initiative, and he’s proven gratifyingly right by the way Ransom’s leg jolts slightly beneath his hand. Regardless, Ransom scarcely misses a beat, his own hand reaching out until he’s loosely sliding their fingers together, glancing down at them with a small smile, before turning his attention back to the TV. 

Despite Holster’s slight height advantage, Ransom’s hands are bigger than his. Somehow, Holster hadn’t noticed before - had never had the occasion to, he supposes. He stares dumbly down at their interlocked fingers for a long while, unexpectedly winded by the sight of it. 

His wrist, turned at a slightly awkward angle, goes completely numb halfway through Return of the King. He doesn’t move it.

*** 

Once Jack, Bitty and Lardo know, the news that Ransom and Holster are dating spreads quickly through the team, and for the next few days they’re caught in an apprehensive stalemate, either excruciatingly awkward or exceedingly comfortable with each other depending largely on who they’re with and whether or not Shitty’s looming behind them with his moustache quivering dangerously and a crazed look in his eye. Gradually, Holster finds himself becoming more and more accustomed to Ransom’s gentle, intimate touches - a familiarity that, in contrast, serves only to make him dread the day those gestures will cease, to be replaced slowly but inevitably with the casual bro-hugs and fistbumps that had previously characterised so much of their easygoing friendship. 

It’s fitting, really, that nearly a week into their pretend relationship, it’s Kent Parson who shakes the entire thing up.

It’s a long-standing tradition for the Haus to host a big, blowout party to mark the imminent end of each semester, and even with final exams fast approaching, this one is shaping up nicely; there are people crammed in every room downstairs by the time Holster returns from a beer run with Shitty, and Kent - his team recently, _brutally_ knocked out of the NHL playoffs - is unexpectedly among them, leaning up against the bannister with a red solo cup in his hand and a dangerous twist to his smirk that instantly reminds Holster of an electrical spark, jolting between two live wires.

Spotting Holster, Kent’s grin grows wider, sharpens; he lifts his cup in a mocking salute, then pushes himself away from the stairs and approaches, the crowd parting easily in his wake. “Birk _holtz_ , s’been a while!”

“Yeah, dude.” Holster smiles back, bumping his knuckles amiably against Kent’s proffered fist. “Sorry you got knocked out, bro, I watched the game with Rans and that snipe should never have been allowed.”

Kent shrugs a fatalistic shoulder. “Well, you know. Shit happens.”

“That it does.” Holster nods agreeably, commiserating. “How’ve you been doing, anyway?”

“Could be better, man, to be honest,” Kent says, his eyes roving restlessly over the crowd as he readjusts his Aces snapback with a careless hand. “Could be worse too though, so.”

“Shit, I’m sorry to hear that.” Kent _does_ look a little fatigued, dark bruises under his eyes to rival his own and even darker hollows beneath his cheekbones, and it occurs to Holster suddenly that he’s already a little drunk, swaying gently on his feet, the suspiciously clear liquid in his disposable cup slopping dangerously close to the brim.

“Hey, man, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Kent claps him brusquely on the shoulder with a wide smile, and this time his drink does spill, although he doesn’t seem to notice. “Anyway, a little bird told me you’ve got some good news.”

Holy _fuck_ , Holster thinks, who told _Kent?_

He quickly runs through everyone who knows - pretty much the entire team, he thinks - and easily dismisses those who’ve never even met Kent, but still comes up blank. His total mystification must show on his face, because Kent laughs, and says, “No worries, bro, seriously, I heard it from Ransom like ten minutes ago.” 

“Oh. Okay.” It’s a cold sort of surprise; Holster feels discomfited, put on edge, although he can’t quite articulate why. It’s - he _likes_ Kent, he really, genuinely does, but the idea of the news spreading outside of the team, outside of the school even, makes anxiety bubble up in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want to be outed to the whole world over something that isn’t even _real_.

“Shit, relax, it’s fine,” Kent’s saying. “I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

Holster forces a smile, although he knows the expression is probably sitting uneasily on his face. “Yeah, I know, it’s not that. I just,” and he takes a deep breath, unsure of how to continue. “Didn’t know we were telling people without consulting each other first. No offence.”

“None taken.” Kent peers at him curiously, strands of his dirty-blond hair hanging loose over his forehead where they’ve escaped from the band of his hat. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble in paradise, you know? I don’t think he’s telling people, I’m pretty sure he just told me because I was the first person he came out to last year.” 

Kent’s words are casual, intended as a quick consolation, but they slam into Holster with the force of an eighteen-wheeler. It’s almost as though he hears them in slow-motion - _I was the first person he came out to last year_ \- and he runs them back through his head, once, and then again, wondering if he somehow missed Kent’s meaning. “He - _what?_ ”

“Um, yeah.” Kent raises his eyebrows at Holster questioningly, like he thinks Holster’s being thick on purpose. “He was, like, _schwasted_ , man, it was at one of your Haus shindigs. Kinda thought he must have told you about that, seeing as how the two of you are, you know,” and he makes an expansive gesture with his free hand, “ _dating_ now and everything.” 

“Yeah, no.” Holster’s mouth is dry and his heart is pounding like it’s about to give out. His palms feel sweaty; he rubs them absent-mindedly against his denim-clad thighs. “He, uh. Didn’t mention that to me, actually.”

“…Okay. Well, it was a pretty messy night, you know how it is. Probably didn’t want to embarrass himself.” Kent grins again, his gaze landing on something behind Holster’s left shoulder. “Hey, I gotta go, Holtzy, but it’s been great catching up with you.” He waves a hand at Holster, casually dismissive, as he peels away from the wall he’d been leaning against and weaves back through the crowd, heading, most likely, for Jack. Holster barely even registers him leaving. 

So Ransom is - he’s -

Holster’s thoughts are racing at a million miles an hour, and he has to - he has to _leave_ , has to get away from all of these people, needs to process what he’s just heard away from the noise and the insistent press of drunken bodies against his own. He barely hesitates, shouldering his way through the crowd and mumbling semi-coherent apologies to those he jostles, brushing off Shitty’s concerned hand on his shoulder as he stumbles towards the front door. 

The cool nighttime air is soothing on his overheated face and he stands still for a moment, tilting his head back on his shoulders and letting his eyes slide shut. 

Ransom is gay, then, or bi - whichever, the point is he likes boys, the rest doesn’t matter. Holster wonders how long he’s known, how long he’s been keeping it a secret - over a year, if Kent is to be believed, which he almost certainly is because he’s definitely a tool but he’s not _that_ much of a tool - and he feels a brief flash of irrational, hypocritical hurt over Ransom not _saying anything_ to him that he tamps down on sharply before it can take proper hold.

Inevitably, his thoughts turn to what this means for them _,_ what it has to do with what they’ve been doing, because he’s not _dumb_ , okay, he knew Ransom had a reason for throwing himself into this that was bigger than simply wanting to be a bro for Shitty, he just hadn’t known what it _was_. Every one of Ransom’s little touches play again in his mind like pictures on a slideshow reel, recontextualised with what Holster now knows, and he - he’s just so _confused_ , because he doesn’t understand it.

Unless, maybe - but he dismisses the thought almost as soon as he has it, bitterly willing away the sudden surge of hope in his chest. The bare bones of it make sense, sure, the idea that Ransom might have been so willing to fake-date him because he - because he _wanted him_ , in the same way that Holster wants Ransom, but it falls apart when Holster thinks of his own feelings, of how he’s been suffering with them even more since this whole fiasco began, and he can’t imagine anyone embracing the opportunity to receive a mere facsimile of the thing they really, truly want, let alone dealing with it in such a consistently ebullient way. 

He wonders, a tendril of insidious jealousy wrapping its way around his guts, if Ransom’s ever been with another boy. He doesn’t think so, although he’s aware it could be wishful thinking - the two of them are just always together, is the thing, and he can’t, or doesn’t want to, imagine a world in which Ransom could go through with something so _huge_ without telling him.

But then, if he hasn’t - and with that thought, something like clarity begins to dawn in Holster’s mind. 

He understands it, he supposes; if you wanted to be with a boy but you were closeted, or afraid, then maybe it isn’t so weird to try and - test it out, see how it feels, in a way that’s safe, where there can’t possibly be any repercussions, with your best bro who you trust more than anyone else in the world, your best bro who’s ostensibly _straight._

Holster exhales heavily, his breath ragged and loud in the silence of the night. He’s aware, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, that virtually everything about this situation is ridiculous - maybe he’ll even be able to look back on it and laugh, in the years to come, although nothing about it feels funny to him right now. It hurts, maybe more than it did when he thought Ransom couldn’t be interested in him because he was straight; it’s somehow much, much worse to know that Ransom _could_ want him in that way, but doesn’t.

Still, Ransom is his best friend, first and foremost. If what he wants is the chance to experiment without consequence, to come to terms with a burgeoning part of himself that he otherwise has no outlet for, then Holster can give him that, and he can do it without complaint, because he loves him, and because he knows that Ransom would never ever hurt him on purpose, which means that Ransom can’t _ever_ know about him, about the feelings he’s harbouring, or this whole thing will fall apart. 

He rubs at his eyes, pressing in hard with his knuckles until his thoughts scatter apart like dust in the wind. Then, he squares his shoulders, bracing himself, and walks back into the party. 

***

He can’t find Ransom at first. 

He barely hears the noise of the crowd as he walks through the Haus, glad for his height as he peers over people’s heads. Ransom isn’t in the hall, or the living room; anxiety is just beginning to prickle in Holster’s chest when he rounds the corner to the kitchen and sees him leaning his weight against the counter, engaged in a bizarre drinking game with Shitty and Lardo.

Shitty spots him first, and beckons him over cheerfully. “Dude, I thought I saw you leave.”

“You left?” Ransom semi-turns to face him, looking mildly concerned. “Really? You okay?”

“Yeah,” says Holster, answering both questions, then, after a slight pause, tacks on “babe” as an afterthought, sliding his arms around Ransom’s waist from behind and hooking his chin over his shoulder. Ransom immediately leans back into the embrace, heavy and warm in Holster’s arms, and if Holster wasn’t completely sure before, he is now - it’s almost painfully obvious now that he’s looking out for it, the tiny catch in Ransom’s breath, the easy willingness with which his whole body bows into Holster’s touch. 

They rope Holster into their drinking game, but, feeling suddenly possessive, he refuses to relinquish his grip on Ransom; instead, he makes Ransom tip the shots into his mouth from over his shoulder, and although he can’t quite get his head around the rules Lardo appears to have mostly made up on the spot, the manoeuvre gets them an extra two points for style, even when Ransom misses and pours Fireball down his own shirt. Eventually, Holster begs out, his head swimming from the alcohol and the intoxicating heat of Ransom pressed up against him, and Ransom - loose-limbed and cheerful - is quick to follow. He puts down his shot glass and turns in Holster’s arms, and Holster doesn’t know if his reflexes are delayed from the whiskey or if he just doesn’t want to let go, but whatever the reason, his hands stay linked in the small of Ransom’s back, pushing them somehow even closer together. 

And Holster doesn’t set out to do it, doesn’t mean to press forward slightly until Ransom is bracketed in between him and the counter, doesn’t mean to lean in until their faces are only centimetres apart, but Ransom’s eyes are luminous and beautiful in the artificial kitchen light, and Holster just tosses caution to the wind, thinks, nonsensically, _this is it,_ _it has to be now_ , and kisses him. 

It’s chaste, at first, and gentle, just the dry press of lips on lips, and Holster panics, for a moment, because there’s a tension in the set of Ransom’s shoulders that definitely wasn’t there before, but in between one heartbeat and the next Ransom relaxes, the stiffness in his muscles draining away in a smooth rush. His mouth opens, his own hands coming up to clutch at Holster’s hips, and suddenly they’re not just kissing, they’re _kissing,_ and Ransom’s tongue is in his mouth, and there are other people in the room but Holster knows, all at once and with a bone-deep certainty, that if he could only do one thing from now until the end of his life, it would be this. 

It could last for seconds, or minutes, Holster doesn’t know; eventually, though, he draws back, his gaze dropping heavily to Ransom’s mouth while they both catch their breath. Ransom’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips, his eyes flicking to the door. “Hey, uh,” he says, and Holster’s dick twitches at the hoarseness in his voice, “I think everyone left.” 

Holster looks around too, and it’s true; Shitty and Lardo have disappeared back into the party, maybe to give them some semblance of privacy. He looks back at Ransom, still holding himself taut between Holster’s bulk and the counter behind him. Holster, very deliberately, doesn’t step back. There’s a moment of perfect silence, hanging crystalline in the air between them, and then they’re both moving at once until they’re kissing again, hands grasping hungrily at each other’s waists.

Holster knows, fuzzily, that they’ve crossed a line; there’s no one here to witness this, their first, most likely their only, kiss - it’s not on display, not a spectacle, this is theirs and theirs alone, and warmth swells in Holster’s chest like the accidental spark that, left untended, ignites a forest fire. 

It’s Ransom who pulls away first, blinking lazily, his expression unreadable. He keeps his thumbs hooked through Holster’s belt loops, a small, stabilising touch that Holster is exceedingly grateful for. “What, um. What just happened?”

Holster ducks his head slightly, staring down at their feet, aligned together on the linoleum floor. “I spoke to Kent,” he says, hesitant, not really knowing how to continue.

Ransom shakes his head slightly, confused. “…And?” 

Holster meets his eye, forcing himself not to look away. “He told me you came out to him last year.”

Ransom startles, then laughs, low and ragged. “Fuck. You know, I’d actually forgotten.”

“How do you _forget_ -’ Holster begins, before cutting himself off. “Okay, never mind, that’s not the point. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ransom shakes his head, stepping away and smoothly breaking Holster’s hold on him, although he stays close by at his side. “You don’t understand, Holster, I didn’t mean to tell anyone. It was just - that _godawful_ party, you know, after we lost to Albuquerque, and I was drunk, and I just.” He gestures hopelessly at nothing, then sighs. “Kent was there, and I said a little too much. That’s all.” 

“Okay.” Holster nods, slowly processing. “Fuck, of course it’s okay, you’re my best friend.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Ransom asks, eyes wide and anxious. 

“No I’m not fucking mad at you, you idiot, why would I be _mad_ \- I mean, I wasn’t thrilled that you told Kent about us.” Holster exhales, a little unsteady. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. It’s not like we’re -” and he breaks off again, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not like what we were doing was real.” 

Ransom breathes out steadily, looking relieved. “Yeah. Okay. And - I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He bows his head, abashed. “I just wasn’t ready, man.” 

“Yeah, dude, I know.” Holster reaches out and clasps his shoulder reassuringly, letting his hand slide down the length of Ransom’s arm until he can circle his fingers around Ransom’s wrist, squeezing gently, just to prove to Ransom he means it, to offer his support in the simplest way he can think of. 

Ransom looks up at him assessingly, his gaze heavy, and Holster’s insides squirm uncomfortably, sensing what’s coming. “So, what, you made out with me because you’re a good ally?” 

Holster laughs, abrupt. “Something like that,” he starts, but is saved from saying anything else by Jack stomping into the kitchen, his expression thunderous, Kent close on his heels. 

“Time to go?” Ransom mouths at Holster, looking mildly alarmed, and Holster nods fervently. 

 ***

The party’s still raging outside the kitchen, and Holster stands still for a second, tired of socialising. Really, he just wants to go upstairs, to sit on his own or with Ransom in the still peace of their attic room, and he realises after a brief moment that there’s nothing, actually, to stop him from doing that, so he makes his way decisively towards the stairs. 

He doesn’t realise until he’s halfway up them that Ransom’s following not far behind, and his heart speeds up in his chest. In the doorway, he turns, inquisitive, and Ransom shrugs. “Kind of over it, to be honest,” he says, with a short nod downstairs.

Holster doesn’t have anything in mind, not really. Absent-mindedly, he’s thinking about chilling out for a bit, maybe watching something on his laptop, but once inside the room he turns, and Ransom’s standing so close to him, pulling off his whiskey-soaked shirt, and Holster just - he freezes, stops dead and stares. 

Ransom leans over, oblivious, hunting around for a clean shirt, and something in Holster rebels instinctively at the thought; almost involuntarily, he reaches out, places his hand on the warm curve of Ransom’s hip, feels him grow suddenly still, and thinks _hell, if I’m gonna give him the boyfriend experience, I may as well give him the best damn boyfriend experience I can manage_. He steps closer, pressing his fingers in, feeling the hard muscle under Ransom’s smooth, beautiful skin.

“Adam.” The calm in Ransom’s voice is belied by the tension in his posture, and Holster shivers to hear him say his given name with such measured, exacting precision. “What are you doing?”

“Ever been with a guy?” Holster asks, his voice quiet, although he’s almost positive he knows the answer.

“No,” says Ransom, not embarrassed to admit it, then arches an eyebrow. “Have you? Because I’m beginning to think…”

Holster shakes his head wordlessly. Then he says, “Tell me to stop.”

“Wha-” Ransom breaks off as Holster draws nearer, his gaze wary, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t step back, and Holster can see the want in his eyes, barely suppressed. He leans in, pressing his mouth against Ransom’s with more confidence now, and Ransom gasps, a tiny, quiet sound that’s thrilling in the silence. He doesn’t tell Holster to stop. 

Holster’s hard, almost painfully, rock solid in his jeans, and he pushes Ransom gently but firmly against the wall, making sure he can feel it when he tangles their legs together and presses forward. Ransom breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, and knocks his head back against the plaster, looking at Holster intently from beneath his eyelashes. He’s hard too, and the knowledge almost sends Holster over the edge; he takes a step back, making Ransom’s expression alter slightly in confusion, then drops down to his knees. 

Ransom’s harsh intake of breath, somewhere above him, is a balm on his frayed nerves. Still, he’s shaking a little, his hand unsteady when he raises it and touches Ransom’s dick for the first time, over his jeans, pushing his fingers against it, feeling it twitch beneath his palm. It’s a headrush, and suddenly he needs everything, like, immediately, so he splays his hands wide on Ransom’s thick thighs and looks up at him, curling the tips of his fingers over Ransom’s waistband.

It takes Ransom a moment to get with the program, lost in some private moment, but then he’s quick to obey, flicking open his top button and shoving his jeans and underwear midway down his thighs, careless and hasty. It’s more than enough for Holster, and he leans in, wrapping his hand around the base of Ransom’s dick before taking the rest into his mouth. 

He’s never done it before, but it’s obvious from Ransom’s shuddered gasp that his inexperience doesn’t matter, and Holster’s insatiable, suddenly - and just as suddenly he realises that he _can’t_ do this again, he can’t be there for Ransom like he’d thought he could, like he wanted to be, can’t put himself through this if this is all it’s ever going to be, and the realisation is so crushing in its pure and simple truth that he redoubles his efforts, desperate for everything and anything Ransom can give him. 

It doesn’t last long, both of them too wired, too overwhelmed by sensation. Ransom finishes first, moaning brokenly as he spills into Holster’s mouth, but Holster isn’t far behind, pushing up into his own hand and coming inside his jeans like he hasn’t since he was in his early teens. After, Ransom crumples against the wall and laughs, breathless and disbelieving, then pushes his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off and collapses onto Holster’s bunk. 

Holster just looks at him, thinks, _he’s beautiful_ and _I love him_ , and Ransom must misinterpret the emotion behind his stare because he just raises his eyebrows lethargically and says “Dude, there’s no way I’m moving.”

Holster huffs out a breath and shakes his head, amused, before peeling off his own gross jeans and shirt and sliding in next to Ransom, who pulls him in close and tugs the blanket up and over them. It makes Holster’s heart hurt, how easily Ransom does it, but it feels normal somehow, it feels right for them, so he doesn’t complain.

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, emotions a maelstrom whirling in his chest, but between the alcohol in his system and the steadfast warmth of Ransom at his side he’s falling asleep within five minutes, Ransom’s fingers curling loosely around his own the last thing he’s aware of before unconsciousness claims him.

***

In the morning, he wakes before Ransom. They’re in essentially the same position they were in when they fell asleep, Holster’s single bed not allowing for much movement, and for an all-too-brief handful of minutes he savours the bittersweet feeling of Ransom’s long, naked limbs entangled with his own beneath the sheets, before sliding out from underneath the heavy weight of Ransom’s arm and getting dressed in silence.

He’s uncertain whether to stay here and wait or go downstairs, but he hesitates for long enough that in the end the decision is made for him; Ransom stirs, his mind probably registering Holster’s absence on some level, and pushes himself up on his elbows, blinking himself sleepily awake. 

“Good morning,” says Holster, because he has manners, and because it’s important for Ransom to think he still respects him the morning after, especially considering the conversation he’s gearing himself up to initiate. 

“Hey.” Ransom’s voice is endearingly sleepy, and it’s an effort for Holster to suppress the painful jolt in the pit of his stomach. He feels awful for what he’s about to say, but he just - he can’t let Ransom keep _looking_ at him so fondly, when Holster’s a shitheel who absolutely doesn’t deserve it, so he clears his throat awkwardly and says “We need to talk.”

“Right now?” Ransom’s expression, previously so open and unguarded, immediately begins to shut down, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“I think so,” and Holster hesitates, his heart racing nervously. “I just, I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.”

“You can’t - what?”

“This whole - thing, I can’t do it for you, man, I can’t -” and he breaks off, sounding panicked even to his own ears, pressing his hands briefly against his face before letting them fall back down to his side. “I really thought that I could, but it’s just, it’s _too much_.”

“Oh. Right.” Ransom’s face is carefully blank, his voice devoid of any emotion at all, and Holster hates it so much he can barely breathe, every atom of his being rebelling fiercely at the sheer _wrongness_ of it.

“Look, I’ll tell Shitty we can’t be his pet project anymore, okay? He’ll understand.” Holster knows, vaguely, that this isn’t even slightly important in the scheme of things, but he’s finding himself increasingly lost for words, the expression on Ransom’s face, like, eating away at his _soul_ or something.

“Yeah. Whatever you wanna do.”

“Are you mad?” Holster hates how weak he sounds, how desperate he is for everything to be okay, but he can’t help asking, because he’s heartbroken enough already and if he’s fucked up his thing with Ransom then he’s fucked up the best thing he’s ever had in his life and there’s no way he’ll be able to live with himself.

“I’m not mad,” Ransom says, but he sounds distant, hollow. “I don’t want you to have to do anything for me, I just - I want you to be -” and he cuts himself off, shaking his head and staring down at his lap. “I just want you to be my friend. Whatever. It’s fine.” 

“I am your friend,” Holster says, and he crosses the room, laying his hand down on Ransom’s bare shoulder. Ransom - doesn’t _flinch_ exactly, but he shifts in place, his body curving almost imperceptibly away from Holster’s touch. “I’ll always be your friend,” Holster finishes, quiet and sad, not saying _I wish I could be more_ because he knows right now it’d be the furthest thing from helpful.

“Yeah, cool.” Ransom twines his fingers together, a nervous gesture that’s so incongruous with his entire personality that Holster’s heart breaks a little more to see it. “Hey, no offence, but could you go? I have to get dressed, and, like -’ he rolls his shoulders, gesturing vaguely at his own nakedness.

“Oh, um, sure.” Holster backs away, although it’s the last thing in the world he wants to do, and can’t help feeling, as he leaves the bedroom and shuts the door behind him, that somewhere along the line he’s made a huge mistake. He can only hope - and he does, with all he’s got - that it isn’t irreparable.

***

That impression only solidifies over the course of the next few days, Ransom doing a masterful job of avoiding him whenever possible. He’s even stopped sleeping at the Haus, heading out who knows where after class, and Holster, masochistically, revels in the jealousy of not knowing what he’s doing or who he’s doing it with, fully aware that it’s all his fault in the first place. 

The attitude in the Haus is subdued, too. Holster doesn’t think anyone, himself included, truly realised the extent to which his friendship with Ransom kept everyone else afloat, a constant, reliable presence in the background of their lives, until suddenly it was gone. No one else seems willing to bring it up around him, so he doesn’t know what they all assume happened - that they broke up, probably, and the thought makes something bitter rise up in the back of his throat. 

Shitty waylays him on day three, spotting Holster across the quad when he’s on his way back from class. He looks distraught, and Holster feels bad about it, so he slows his pace and lets Shitty walk alongside him, wringing his hands guiltily. “Listen, man, this is my fault, I never meant for you guys to fall out over it -”

“It’s not your fault,” Holster interrupts, his tone short. “It was mine, so don’t worry about it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Shitty peers at him earnestly, like he’ll do anything he can to help, and Holster feels even worse for disappointing him.

He doesn’t quite feel bad enough to talk about it, though. “Not really. Sorry, bro, I hope we didn’t mess up your big paper.”

“Nah, you didn’t.” Shitty frowns sadly. “I saw Ransom earlier, by the way -”

“You did?” Holster interrupts him again, perking up a bit. “How was he?”

“Uhhm, good,” says Shitty, in a tone of voice that heavily implies the exact opposite. “He misses you.”

“Well, he’s the one who left, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that.” Holster can’t help snapping, unhappiness pouring out of him, imbuing his words with a tangible, bitter frustration. 

“I know, man.” Shitty is kind, patient, and he squeezes Holster’s arm comfortingly. “You know, I don’t know anything about what happened between you, but he’ll get over it. Don’t worry.” 

Holster laughs bleakly. “Yeah? What makes you so sure of that?”

Shitty raises his eyebrows. “Honestly? It’s you guys. You’re like - soulmates. I don’t think there’s anything that can break you two apart.” He pats Holster’s shoulder again, then smiles consolingly. “Anyway, I have to go, but I’ll see you later, okay?”

Holster nods in mute acquiescence, eyes trained vacantly on Shitty’s back as he hurries off to his next class. It’s strange, but he does feel a little better, a little less hopeless, Shitty’s words - _you’re like, soulmates_ \- playing on repeat in his head.

He picks up his pace a little, heading towards home with a new sense of purpose. He knows what he has to do.

*** 

He doesn’t think Ransom’s been opening his texts, so he skips that step and calls him instead. As expected, it rings for half a minute, then goes to voicemail.

“Rans, hey, it’s me. I really have to talk to you. It’s, like, urgent, so call me back when you get this? I don’t wanna leave it all on your voicemail, this isn’t the nineties anymore, Jesus. Um, okay, speak to you later. Bye.” 

He hangs up, then slips his phone back in his pocket, pacing restlessly around his bedroom. When there’s no call after two minutes, he takes his phone out, doublechecks it’s set to vibrate and turns on the ringer for good measure. Another minute, and he feels like he’s going mad, so he tosses his phone exasperatedly onto the bedspread and flops down in his desk chair. 

He immerses himself in work, forcing himself to try and decipher the world’s most boring textbook in an attempt to distract himself. He’s almost successful - still half-listening for his phone, he doesn’t register the sound of the front door opening, or footsteps on the stairs, until there’s a cough from the doorway and a familiar voice in his ear, saying “You wanted to talk?”

Holster jerks upright, spinning around in his chair so fast he nearly loses his balance. From the doorway, Ransom raises an eyebrow, impassive, and Holster puts everything he has into not leaping up and bearhugging him to within an inch of his life. Still, he can’t quite repress the flood of emotion rushing up inside him, and so he says, his voice hoarse, “Fuck, bro, I missed you so goddamn much.”

Ransom doesn’t reply at first, bowing his head and dodging Holster’s gaze with his arms folded protectively against his chest. Then: “I’m still not sure I made the right choice coming here, so you better start talking.”

Holster breathes in deeply, attempting to format his thoughts in a way that’ll make sense when he tries to verbalise them. “Okay, so - you said we were friends, right? I wanna know why you’re still so mad at me.”

Ransom scoffs, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead in disbelief. “Uh, you said we needed to talk urgently so that I can explain to you why I’m mad? Really?”

Holster winces, because it does sound pretty bad put like that, but - “Yeah, because you said you weren’t. Mad, I mean. And you pretty clearly are, so…”

“I'm not mad, Holster, fuck, you’re such an idiot!” Ransom shakes his head, looking upset. “I’m fucking devastated, you _giant tool_.” 

Holster, suddenly, feels like the bottom’s dropped out of his stomach. “What?! Why?”

“Um, let’s see,” Ransom says, and holds one hand up in the air to count off the reasons on his fingers. “Number one, you tell me you know that I’m bi, which would have been fine on its own, but then, number two,” and he folds down another finger, “you _suck my dick_ , and then, number three, you dump me the very next morning, when I’d _just_ woken up, _because_ , number four, you, what, realised you’re not gay enough for it? Like you couldn’t have arrived at that conclusion before you _made out with me in the first place_? God, you’re such a fucking douchebag.”

Holster thinks, dimly, that he should maybe feel hurt by the barrage of insults Ransom is currently levelling at him, but he’s beginning to suspect, through a dawning haze of realisation, that they may in fact be entirely warranted. He’s still working through everything Ransom just said when Ransom mumbles “Okay, maybe I am a little mad,” and slumps, defeated, against the doorframe. 

“I didn’t _dump you_ ,” is all he can think to say, after a long silence. 

Ransom lets out a gust of breath, rubbing at the corners of his eyes tiredly. “Well, you could have fooled me.”

“I mean - I didn’t mean to dump you,” Holster says, his tone urgent, just so desperate for Ransom to understand him. “I thought - okay, I couldn’t keep fucking around with you because I like you _too much_ , not because I don’t like you enough, fuck. You don’t like me,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “that’s why I stopped it, don’t you get that?”

“Um, no, I don’t think I do,” Ransom says, sounding, for the first time, a little uncertain. “What do you mean, you like me too much?”

“What do you _think_ I mean, fuckface?” Holster sits back in his chair, brushing his hair back off his face impatiently. His face, beneath his palm, is burning up; he must be bright red, he realises mournfully, but it’s too late now to take back his words, and he doesn’t really want to anyway. “I like you so much I wanna barf up my insides whenever I’m around you, holy shit.”

“Like,” Ransom pauses. “Romantically?”

“ _Yes,_ romantically.”

They both fall silent, staring at each other from across the room, the only sound Holster’s panicked, slightly elevated breathing. Finally, Ransom smirks, his expression irrepressibly fond. “That’s… just really fucking poetic, Holster. Barf up your insides. Jesus.”

“Shut up,” Holster mutters, and he knows if he wasn’t blushing before then he definitely is now, but Ransom’s staring at him, and he’s blushing a bit too, his eyes twinkling, and Holster just can’t bring himself to _care_. “So, you like me back, right? Because I’ve gotta say, I’m really embarrassed right now, so I’ll have to leave the country if you don’t, and that would suck.”

“ _Like_ you?” Ransom beams down at him, blindingly beautiful. “I fucking love you, man.” 

And then he’s crossing the space between them, and Holster’s rising up out of his chair to meet him, and one of Ransom’s hands is sliding into his hair, the other wrapping around his waist, and they’re _kissing_ , and nothing in the entire history of the universe has ever been more perfect. Holster’s shaking so much he has to pull away after a too-short minute; he ducks his head, presses it against Ransom’s shoulder, and how is it that Ransom always smells so _good_ \- and he might say that out loud because he hears Ransom laugh above him, his big hands stroking a soothing line down the expanse of Holster’s back. 

“Fuck,” Holster blurts out, “you’re just _so hot_ ,” and then Ransom abruptly stops laughing, and manoeuvres them steadily towards the bed; they fall down onto it together, grinding up against each other, and Holster slides his hand down the back of Ransom’s pants, and no one talks for a long time after that. 

***

Jack and Bitty go public with their relationship a month after Ransom and Holster get together for real, just as everyone’s getting ready to fly back home for the holidays.

“We kept it secret for a while,” Bitty says, shyly, his hand clasped tightly in Jack’s. “We weren’t sure how to tell you guys, but then Holster and Ransom made it all seem so easy, you know.”

Ransom and Holster share a glance, then turn as one to look at Shitty, sitting beside them on the sofa, where they’ve all been gathered for this impromptu Haus meeting.

“And how long, exactly, have you been dating?” inquires Holster, casually. 

“Since just after Christmas, actually,” says Jack, smiling down at Bitty.

Shitty manages a small choking noise, his eyes wide and horrified. Holster grins.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Shitty hisses at them over the dinner table, later that night. “I didn’t know, I swear.”

“Uh huh,” says Ransom, sounding distinctly unimpressed, save for the way his thumb is stroking Holster’s knee under the table.

“If you ever need free legal counsel, I promise, I’ll do it, even if you’ve _murdered someone_ -”

Next to Shitty, Lardo’s staring at them all like they’ve gone mad. Holster winks at her, and she shrugs, turning her attention back to her plate.

“It’s really okay,” Ransom’s saying, an amused twinkle in his eye, and right in that second, Holster’s the happiest he’s ever been. “You know, I think it all turned out alright in the end.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://rapturemetro.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/miIkshakeduck)!


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